Survivors of Zone One
by CrimsonCaviar
Summary: Dallas survived the outbreak when it started in DC. Twenty years later he and a group of survivors have formed a community on an island in the Chesapeake Bay. Can the community keep out bandits, hunters and the infected to maintain some sense of normalcy?


Cobb Island Memorial Church sat on the banks of the Chesapeake bay, sandwiched serenely between the shores of Maryland and Virginia. One could almost lose themselves looking out over the water, which made the church as good a place as any to sit and pass the time. The church itself held dual identities, working as the town hall by day and a spot for the locals to gather and have a drink or two by night. The irony was not lost on Dallas as he sipped some of the fermented cider in the house of the lord. A few of the locals had learned to make the cider from one of the many varieties of local apples. The drink itself wasn't bad, and the ingenuity of the townsfolk was much appreciated on a night like tonight.

Today would have been Jess' forty-third birthday and the thought of it made him feel old. All around him were younger folks, the Jones' two boys who were now men romancing the Childress' little girl who was now a woman. Boisterous in their innocence, trying to work out their place in this world. He rocked in one of the old wicker rocking chairs and listened to their banter, remembering what it was like to be young and carefree. But most of all he thought about Jess and the life that never happened, the life that he had carefully laid out as a young man that one fatal moment ripped away from him forever. The thought still felt like a punch in the stomach after all these years, he looked up at the bright full moon that cascaded over the bay, its waters still and calm and let the feeling wash over him, if only for a moment.

It was moments like these though that drove him crazy, and the quiet reflection of Cobb Island offered him plenty of time for contemplation. That's why today was a special day, not just because it was Jess' birthday but because this was the day Dallas decided he would kill himself at home, in the truck, with the beretta 9mm that had saved his life so many times.

He'd been on Cobb Island for ten whole years now, part of the group that became the town's founders after the residents had abandoned it. They were a rag-tag group back then, a collection of survivors from various points south of DC looking for a place to settle down. Jess was around back then, and the hope of a somewhat peaceful life together spurned them on as they combed the urban wilderness for a place to call their own.

Cobb was a godsend, but the group had paid a steep price to find it. The island was mostly intact and the group cobbled together fortifications easily enough to block the bridge from any infected or bandits that came along. Dallas was still in charge of security on the island, which he found tedious and mundane. As one of the few military men that had made it to Cobb, Dallas was responsible for combat training in those early days. As word of the island traveled more and more families began to make their way towards the safe haven, Cobb became a proverbial Mecca for those seeking out civilization. Slowly its population grew and soon there were school teachers and doctors that filled the ranks and enough bodies to work the fields and fish for food. Dallas was proud of what they'd built, but as the years progressed he knew his time had come to an end.

Dallas craned his neck keeping his eyes focused on the sky as he made his way back to the houseboat he kept moored at the marina. He loved clear nights like these, and the darkness of the world offered no interference as the stars shone brightly through the sky's black canopy. He sloppily wriggled into the old Ford pickup he kept in front of the boat, the effects of the cider taking it's toll on his equilibrium as he leaned hard against the bench seat. His Beretta sat neatly in the glove box next to an old picture of Jess. He pulled the picture closer, setting it on the dashboard, its frayed edges slowly giving way to the friction of time. It was her senior high school photo, embossed with her name, Jessica Breen class of '08, at the bottom in gold letters that were fading away. He looked at her beautiful dark brown eyes, her unruly curly hair that she'd always complained about. He pictured her, pulling it back into an untidy mess of curls, giving him that look she'd always given him when she felt silly about something she was doing. He thought about how she'd always mess up the powdered eggs, how she only ate the candy out of the MRE's, and how she'd always catch him cheating at cards.

He swallowed hard as he fought to maintain his mission, grasping the Beretta. The familiar feeling of its steel frame felt good in his hand, like an old friend, comforting to have around. Turning the key to the truck the radio lit up, it was an old battery, but there was just enough juice to run the CD player for a few hours. He put in a copy of Bob Dylan's greatest hits he'd found in Arlington during a military foot patrol he'd be part of back when the QZ up north was operational. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel rhythmically as 'meet me in the morning' echoed through the cabin and out into the still night.

It was awhile before he was ready, but he felt incredibly clear when the moment had come. As he lifted the Beretta to his head he wanted to exclaim something poetic, but his mind drew blanks as he nervously twitched with the pistol. He thought about the bodies he'd found on the road, all those who had chosen to depart this earth on their own terms, he felt comforted to be in their company. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb, setting it in place. _Fuck it_, he thought squeezing the trigger, _fuck it all_.


End file.
